


Salud, Gesundheit, and Blessings Be Upon You, May the Dark Lord Consume You

by lucky_spike



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angelic Blessings, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Minor Injuries, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), No beta we fall like Crowley, OR WAS HE, Other, Referenced Wing Injury, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Sneezing, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), This Is STUPID, brother francis aziraphale, hmmm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21666862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: Or: 5 times Aziraphale accidentally blessed Crowley, +1 time when it went really sideways.Inspired by the Ace Omens Discord server, this is an entirely self-indulgent piece of comedy that I hope someone else will enjoy.-After the first incident, Aziraphale is always very, very careful to make sure he knows who he is blessing after a sneeze. He looks around, surveys the scene, and then, only when he is sure that it’s a human or another angel orjust not Crawly,does he say ‘Bless you’. Of course, aside from the time on the Ark, it’s never Crawly, and after a while the habit starts to die away. He forgets sometimes, and it’s always fine, until one day he hears a sneeze, automatically blesses the person, and hears a whine.He does not swear. Instead, he turns around, sheepish, and sees one very annoyed and very seared-looking demon.“Oh,” he says, over the bustle of the surrounding market.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 85
Kudos: 941





	1. 5

**Author's Note:**

> CW for those for whom it's a squick: this fic does use my usual HC that Crowley's wings got jacked up in the Fall. It's only very briefly referenced, but just in case!
> 
> Otherwise, I would like to blame several people in the Discord server for this, because I really should be putting the finishing touches on my other fic, but this idea sort of spawned from the firmament and what was I supposed to do?
> 
> Write it, that's what.

**1**

The first time it happens is on the Ark. There are animals everywhere, and the stench is overpowering. Aziraphale does what he can to alleviate it, but down in the bowels of the ship, the air is heavy with the smell of feces and urine and animals, and there are only so many miracles he can do to abolish it without gaining Gabriel’s attention.

Crawly does what he can, too: surrounded by children, holding the littlest ones close when the ship rocks, he uses so many miracles to try to keep the air clear that by the third week he’s worn thin, the thin veneer of his human corporation fraying at the edges. It’s lucky the kids know him well by now: unfamiliar children would have probably taken one look at the scales and the horns and the fangs and run for the hills. Not that, at the moment, there were any hills to run to.

But even then, the air isn’t pleasant. Aziraphale is working in the bowels of the ship, just around the corner from the secluded ballast area, helping as much as he can today. He has miracled up a few bales of clean straw, and is stripping the stalls of the goats and the sheep, replacing the filthy straw as he goes. It’s dusty, but the fresh smell of clean straw is a vast improvement over the stench of the dirty bedding. He spreads a few fork-fulls, humming a little as he does, when he hears a sneeze. 

It’s completely unconscious. “Bless you,” he says, tossing another clump of straw into the stall. And then he freezes, because someone yelps. “Er, I -”

“ _ Don’t _ .” It’s Crawley. Aziraphale frowns, leans the pitchfork up against the stall wall, and pads around to the ballast tank. As he leans around the corner, he gasps at what he sees.

Crawly’s been frayed, but not this badly. It must have been him that sneezed, must have been him that was blessed, Aziraphale thinks frantically. One of the children must have been in his lap, but now she is whimpering, seated on top of the massive serpent’s heap of coils. She runs her hands along the scales, lip quivering, and asks, softly, “Crawly?”

“Ssssshh, yesss, it’ss ssstil me.” The serpent rears its head to look her in the eye, sparing a glare for Aziraphale on the way. The little girl whimpers, and then apparently decides that it really is Crawly, wrapping her arms around the serpent’s snout and hugging it tightly. “You’re alright.”

Aziraphale swallows. Weakly, knowing he is wrong, he forces a little chuckle. “Too many miracles?”

“ _ No _ .” The Ark rocks, and a few of the children whimper. Crawly stretches out his wings, the right one crackling painfully as he tries to extend it, and drapes them over the closest children as best he can. “You know what happened.”

“Er. Yes. I suppose I might do.” He wrings his hands. “It’s not … I didn’t intend it to be, er …”

“I’ll be alright in a few dayss.” Crawly glowers. “No thanksss to you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t apologize. Not to the demon’s face, anyway. He shrugs instead, says “Well, serves you right for trying to thwart God’s plan,” and turns away. It is not until later, maybe minutes, maybe hours, while he is still re-bedding the goats, that he allows himself to mutter entirely for his own benefit, “Sorry."

* * *

**2**

After the first incident, Aziraphale is always very, very careful to make sure he knows who he is blessing after a sneeze. He looks around, surveys the scene, and then, only when he is sure that it’s a human or another angel or  _ just not Crawly _ , does he say ‘Bless you’. Of course, aside from the time on the Ark, it’s never Crawly, and after a while the habit starts to die away. He forgets sometimes, and it’s always fine, until one day he hears a sneeze, automatically blesses the person, and hears a whine.

He does not swear. Instead, he turns around, sheepish, and sees one very annoyed and very seared-looking demon. 

“Oh,” he says, over the bustle of the surrounding market. On all sides there are goats, and sheep, and asses and  _ people _ , and he is grateful that Crawly is apparently stronger this time than she was the last, because otherwise he probably would be trying to miraculously calm a market-full of people down in spite of a massive demonic serpent in their midst. As it is, she’s not looking well, and black scales are splashed across the entire right side of her face and head. Her red hair is missing where the scales are, and the remains of a braid come loose, spilling into her face and eyes. “Crawly,” he says, quietly.

Slowly, she raises an eyebrow. “Sorry,” she says slowly, “Didn’t quite catch that.” She points to her ear, or where it should be, but there are only smooth black scales there. “Come again?”

“Sorry,” he says, looking to the packed dirt path of the market, and shuffling his feet a bit. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

“Didn’t quite hear that, Aziraphale,” she says, and then she sighs, brushing her hair out of her face. “Someone blessed me halfway back to serpent.” She looks at her nails and then bites at one, peevish. “Imagine I’ll be half-deaf for a while now.”

“So sorry,” he repeats, louder this time. “Really, I didn’t intend any harm.” He thinks on his feet, and doesn’t spare any extra thought to why it’s so important to him that this demon understands he didn’t mean to smite her. “Please, I’m sorry, I’ll buy you some ale, if that will help.”

She cocks her head, her lips moving slowly, a mirror image of his. Reading lips, he thinks, and another lurch of regret roils his belly. He opens his mouth to speak again, maybe offer to let her choose the tavern, but she holds up a hand. “It won’t,” she says, and then she scoffs. “And besides, I won’t be much of a conversationalist for a little while. Keep your ale.” She turns to go, and he raises his voice even more, shouting now to be heard over the clamor of the market.

“May we meet next time on a better occasion!”

“I doubt it,” Crawly replies over her shoulder, before she pulls her hood down lower and disappears into the crowd.

* * *

**3**

He doesn’t bless anybody for a while, after that. Well, not for sneezing. Work-related blessings are one thing, those he can target, those he knows where they’ll land, but for centuries around the angel, sneezes go thoroughly unblessed, lest a familiar demon be the unintended recipient.

He’s doing well with it too: he sees Crawly - Crowley, now - a handful of times through the years, more now that they’re both based around Wessex. They even share drinks on a few occasions, or a meal here and there. There is even one memorable night where they do all of the above, and retreat back to Crowley’s hut to continue the conversation* over a few more drinks. Eventually, Crowley falls asleep and Aziraphale sobers up, taking a careful moment to tuck demon’s woolen blanket over him before slipping out of the doorway and into the night. It is maybe the first moment Aziraphale realizes he doesn’t really see Crowley as an enemy any more, and subconsciously he redoubles his efforts to check before he blesses.

[*  _ Which is about otters, and how they hold hands sometimes, which for some reason Aziraphale finds to be very important that night _ .]

It is why the night in the tenth century, outside of their shared hut, is so unexpected. They’re deep in their cups, Crowley draped over a felled log and basking in the warmth of the cooking fire while Aziraphale paces around the little clearing, waving his tankard demonstratively as he talks.

“It’s like … like I was saying to the young man from, oof,” he stifles a belch, “the young man from Shrewsbury, you know? Out here the sky’s jus’, jus’  _ bigger _ . Look!”

“I see it,” Crowley affirms, idly prodding the fire with a stick. “Wha’s your point?”

“S’beautiful! Look at it! Stars an’ all!” He beams up at the blackness of the sky, dotted with stars, and takes a swig of ale. “Lovely things, stars.”

“Hm, yeah, aren’t they just?” Crowley says, and because Aziraphale is too busy looking up he doesn’t see how profoundly sad she looks in that moment. She prods the fire again with her stick, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary. Just as she does so, a breeze slithers through the underbrush, and kicks up a cloud of ash, blowing it into her face. She squeaks, and then she sneezes.

“Bless you,” he says absently, still staring at the sky. And then, through the alcohol, a very urgent thought surfaces, and his eyes grow wide. He pales. “Oh, oh no, Crowley, oh, ah, I meant damn you,  _ damn you _ , not -”

“Too late.” He winces and looks, not certain he’s going to like what he finds. He doesn’t: she has been using demonic miracles a little more liberally, out here in the wilderness with no one to watch, and he supposes that must have got her strength down a bit. She is glaring at him through fully-yellow eyes. At first, he can’t tell what’s changed, but when she goes to sit up, having to lift and reposition her legs one-by-one, he realizes what he’s done. 

He raises his hands to his mouth. “Oh, Crowley, I’m  _ so _ sorry. I didn’t mean to - I don’t know where that came from, I usually never say that, it slipped out, I don’t know …”

She sighs. “I know. But you did.” She prods her own thigh and frowns at it. “Can’t feel them at all. Not … normally, anyway.” She looks to Aziraphale, tired, frowning but, for some reason, almost … amused? “Oh, Aziraphale.”

He shifts a little. “Oh Aziraphale what?” he asks, warily. Together, they sober up, wincing and grunting as the alcohol purges from their corporations, and with that done, he looks to her more sharply than before. “ _ What _ ?”

She is braiding her long hair up again, pulling the length of it over her shoulder and tying it off neatly at the end with a cord of grass. “It’s a good thing,” she says, as her fingers flicker through her hair, “you still owe me one from last month.”

“Of course,” he says quickly. “I’m terribly sorry, I really didn’t mean to, it just slipped. What would you need me to do? Forget last month, I owe you for this, really, it’s - ah.” The braid finished, she tosses her hair back over her shoulder, and settles on the log a bit before closing her eyes and changing. She doesn’t go fully demonic, not this time, but even so, her form as a regular snake is alarming enough for humans, should any see her: her black scales shimmer in the firelight, and the bulk of her body stretches along the log for a minute, before she slithers to the forest floor and lazily makes her way over to him. 

“Of course,” he repeats, reaching his hand down to the ground and obligingly staying still as she slithers up his arm and arranges herself around his shoulders. “It’s the least I can do, making sure you’re safe from the humans until we’re all on even footing again. Ah, so to speak, excuse the phrase.” Her tongue flicks out lazily, and she coils around his neck once, most of her long body slung over his chest like a living, breathing necklace. “You said last time it’s a few days before it wears off?”

“Probably lessss,” she says, watching him to his left, just in the corner of his vision. “You didn’t really mean it thisss time.”

“I didn’t,” he agrees. “It’s … well, I thought I’d broken the habit, but with the ale I suppose not.”

“Apparently.” She rests her head on his shoulder, her snout slipping beneath his tartan, into the warmth between his shirt and the heavy cloth. “Be more careful next time.”

Aziraphale snorts. “I rather imagine I will. I can’t be doing this every time I slip up and bless you on accident. It’s one thing out here, but if we were in a city, someone might notice.”

“Bit hard for humansss to missss a huge viper, yeah.”

His eyes narrow, although he is still smiling. “That’s not what I meant.”

Her coils slink a little tighter to his chest, and he could swear that under the tartan he can hear the snake laughing. “Oh, I know. Jusst having a bit of fun at your exspensse.”

“Well … I suppose I can allow it. Just this one time. I do owe you from last month, after all.”

* * *

**4**

Aziraphale is working. There is a chapel, newly-constructed, and he is stood on the lawn in front of it, helping the priest with the first day’s services and blessings. He is dressed in the garb of a transitional deacon, going under the name Mr. Azarias Fell, sent at the last minute to train with and assist the priest in opening the new chapel in the west. He has instructions to assist with the blessings and the consecration of the chapel, and he plans to hang around for not a minute longer than he needs to to accomplish that: his books are waiting for him back in London, and he very much wants to return there to them. He’s thinking about opening a shop, although there is a significant part of him that has concerns about what that entails, namely the presumptive selling of books.

His mind drifts as he blesses the next parishioner, and he thinks again about libraries. Perhaps … ? But no, no, that would never do. Too many people in and out, too many chances for someone to damage a book. No, better to have a shop: the inferred intention to buy books would keep the browsers away, and if all else failed he could price the books so exorbitantly that no one would buy them anyway. He blesses the next parishioner, and thinks,  _ Yes, yes. That just might work _ .

Somewhere around him, someone sneezes. “Bless you,” the priest murmurs, and Aziraphale echoes him, nodding vaguely and half-heartedly in the direction of the sneeze before making the sign of the cross over the parishioner before him. He does not stop - he is an angel, after all, and a professional one - when he hears the yelp, although he knows instantly who it belongs to, and what it means.

“Father,” he says, bowing to the priest, “I am afraid I must step away for a moment.” The parishioners in line to be blessed by the lovely Mr. Fell look a little disgruntled, possibly more because they are forced to sidle to the back of the priest’s line. The priest, who only looks slightly older than Aziraphale but a good deal less friendly, grumbles something in response, and carries on. “Thank you sir, I’ll return with haste,” Aziraphale says, and turns away.

He doesn’t have to go far. In fact, Crowley is waiting for him, arms crossed over his chest and foot tapping the ground impatiently. He’s dressed in the garb of a peasant, although Aziraphale doesn’t recall seeing any peasants with tunics so black, or so well-tailored. “Really, angel?” he says, as Aziraphale draws nearer. Aziraphale shrugs.

“I should say the same to you,” he whispers. “What are  _ you _ doing  _ here? _ ” He looks the demon up-and-down, and his brow furrows. “And it must not be all that bad - I can’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

Crowley sighs. “I’m tempting. If I’d known you’d be in the area doing the blessing, I’d have written you.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Shame, that. Sorry dear boy, but it was you that missed lunch the week before I left.”

“Oh, it’s  _ my _ fault, just because I got summoned at a bad time? Sorry I didn’t break out of the demon circle and tell them to take their pleas for money and shove it up -”

“There’s really no call for that kind of language,” Aziraphale says quickly. “But you look alright, so my blessing must not have been too strong.”

Crowley shrugs. “Maybe not as strong as some you’ve landed on me before, I suppose. And I’ve not been doing many miracles of late, so my strength’s up, but still.” He pulls the collar of his tunic down, and there on his chest is a tremendous swath of black scales and red scutes, which cover him as far as his clothing allows the angel to see. And, although the scales make it hard to see, there are blisters as well; angry and swollen and, if the way Crowley keeps arranging his clothing is any indication, painful.

“Oh. Oops.” Aziraphale shrinks in on himself a little, and looks to the gray, cloudy sky above. “To be fair, I wasn’t really thinking it was … Well, I hardly expected you to be here.” He jerks a thumb toward the village. “I believe there’s a doctor in the village who might be able to do a salve.”

“A salve,” Crowley says flatly. “Am I just going to walk in and show him this nonsense? I’ll be up on a pyre before sundown, angel.” He shakes his head. “No, no doctors. What about a witch? There’s got to be a witch - every village has a witch.”

Aziraphale winces. “They burned her last week.”

Crowley groans. “Well, you prove my point, anyway. Suppose I’ll just have to stick it out until they heal.”

“Really, Crowley, the doctor here is very good, and -”

“I can’t go to a  _ doctor _ , angel, they’ll see the scales and -”

“I’ll go get the salve for you,” Aziraphale finishes. Crowley, momentarily stunned, snaps his mouth shut. “I’ll tell them the priest got a burn in a cookfire, and we need a salve for burns. Easy as anything.”

“That’d be  _ lying _ .”

Aziraphale frowns and looks skyward. “Only halfway.” He points to the tree they have been conversing under, and indicates the soft moss at the base of it. “I’ll meet you back here with the salve. Don’t go anywhere.”

Crowley sits, his expression caught halfway between amused and wary. “You’re serious about this? A few days and they’ll heal, you ridiculous angel, you don’t need to bother with -”

“Nonsense - it will make me feel better. Sit tight, I’ll be back in two shakes.” He bustles off, leaving the demon seated on the moss under the tree, watching him go through his smoked lenses. Without really thinking about it, Crowley reaches up and pulls the neck of his tunic away from his blisters, easing the pain a bit. A salve probably would feel nice.

He is trying to process what it might mean, this unexpected but kind gesture from the angel, when another thought politely steps to the front of the queue, and raps at his brain, demanding prompt attention.

A full three minutes after Aziraphale has gone, disappeared around the corner, Crowley says to himself, quietly, “ _ Two shakes of what _ ?”

* * *

**5**

Aziraphale is not particularly fond of the Brother Francis disguise. It’s hot, and it’s itchy, and even he finds it terribly unfashionable, but it is what is required of him for the job, and so he wears it day in and day out. He does wish he’d left off the teeth - eating has become so much harder with the false ones - but what’s done is done, and it’s only for a few years, anyway. Maybe one or two more, now: Warlock is nearly six, and the Dowlings have started wondering if a child old enough to be in school is really in need of a nanny. It helps, of course, that they are terrified of Nanny Ashtoreth, and the prospect of firing her has very nearly brought Mr. Dowling to tears on more than one occasion, but even that won’t last. Harriet is braver, and now that Warlock is older she finds herself a little fonder of the child, perhaps a little more ready to be a mother. Nanny’s days are numbered, and all three of them - Aziraphale, Crowley, and Warlock - know it.

They spend more time together, as a result. Harriet is more willing to be a mother, and Warlock likes her well enough, but at five years old, Warlock rather thinks of his Nanny and the odd Brother Francis more as family than staff. Even at his tender age, though, he sees which way the wind is blowing, and insists more frequently that Nanny take him into the garden, to see the flowers and the bushes, and to do lessons on the grass instead of in the study. 

It is on one such spring afternoon that it happens again. Aziraphale is ostensibly pruning a shrub, although more accurately he is waving a set of pruning shears around in their direction while the bushes tiredly oblige and pull their branches into a more orderly configuration. Behind him, Warlock is presenting Nanny with a handful of flowers, and is listening attentively as she tells him in that soft highland accent the genus and species of each one, the native habitat, and the care instructions. The little boy cannot possibly ever remember all of this, but he hums along with interest anyway, parroting back the names and sorting them into orderly piles based on their sunlight preferences. He sniffs them too, each one, and solemnly informs Nanny of his findings in terms of scent, to make sure she is aware.

It is why the sneeze that comes eventually is not surprising. “Bless you, Master Warlock,” he says, without turning around. 

“Bless it, Azi -  _ Francis _ ,” Nanny hisses then, and Aziraphale turns, wide-eyed, to see. 

Nanny is holding a flower in one black-gloved hand. It’s hard to believe there is any part of her that would be visibly altered by a blessing would be visible, and yet here they are. Although Crowley looks irritated, and in that moment, every bit a demon with the glower and the tar-black wings, but Warlock is  _ delighted _ . “Your feathers, Nanny!” he exclaims, hurrying around to her left side and pulling her good wing down over his head and shoulders like some kind of cape. It is not the first time he’s seen her wings, and every time Aziraphale has been around it’s always been met with the same level of childish glee. 

“Yes, there they are,” she sighs, shooting another glare at Aziraphale. “I think they’ll be around for a few days, even, little imp.” She tugs the wing upwards, out of his grasp, only to sweep it back down, wrapping it around the boy’s shoulders and pulling him in to her side. Warlock laughs and settles his small hands into the coverts, petting the feathers gently. “You have Brother Francis to thank for that one.”

“Thank you, Brother Francis,” Warlock says obediently.

Aziraphale crosses his arms, careful of the shears. “I blessed  _ Warlock _ , you know.”

Crowley rolls her eyes under the glasses. “Yes, and you meant it with every fiber of your ridiculously angelic being, with me in the splash zone, and here we are. Probably the only reason I haven’t been struck blind or something is because I  _ wasn’t _ the intended target.”

“Oh.” He swallows as he chews that over, so to speak. “Hm.” He kneels down in the grass, in front of Warlock, and looks seriously at the child. “Master Warlock, we are going to have to be careful what we say when someone sneezes.”

“May the Dark Lord consume you,” Nanny suggests gently, jostling Warlock a little and prompting another fit of giggles. 

Aziraphale scowls and scolds, “I think not. Besides, it’s wordy.”

“Salt and pepper?” Warlock suggests, looking from the gardener to his Nanny. 

“A possibility,” Crowley says, while Aziraphale nods along. “I believe in Spain the polite response is  _ ‘salud’ _ .” 

“Salad?” Warlock shakes his head. “That’s stupid. I like mine better.”

“It means ‘health’,” Crowley goes on. “It doesn’t specify good or bad, little imp. Which is ideal, because you can use it as a blessing or a curse, such as you choose.”

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Shorter, too.”

Warlock is looking between the two of them, his brows furrowed in thought. “Salad,” he says slowly, as if trying the word on for the first time. “ _ Sa-lad. _ ” He thinks it over for another moment, and then shrugs, smiling again as one of his Nanny’s feathers come loose under his gentle pats. He holds it up like a sacred artefact which, strictly speaking, it is. “Okay! Can we go inside and show Mom and Dad your wings, Nanny?”

“Afraid not - they can’t see them  _ ever _ . Remember? I have to keep them very secret.”

“Oh, right.” Warlock nodded. “Or you’ll be dreadfully murdered, or kidnapped by the government.” Aziraphale, who had been considering closing his eyes and having a quick kip in sunshine by the hedges, splutters and sits up straighter, wide-eyed.

“Correct.” She taps the kid on the nose, while Aziraphale gapes at them. “And since  _ someone _ made it so I can’t put them away for a few days -” she shoots another dirty look at Aziraphale, her eyes golden rim-to-rim as she glares at him over the tops of her glasses, “I’m very sorry, but I’m going to have to hide until they can be put away again.”

Realization dawns on the boy, followed by shining eyes, a wobbling lip, and a keening little, “ _ Nanny _ …”

“Shh, imp, it’s alright.” She wraps an arm around his shoulders and, with that and her wing, pulls him in to a tight hug. “Since it’s all his fault anyway, I don’t think Brother Francis will object to my hiding in his cottage until things are back to normal. You can visit every day, if you like.”

“Oh.” The tears stop, and he swipes his sleeve across his face to dry them away. “That’s okay, then. Can I keep this?” He holds aloft the feather, spinning it between his fingers and watching in wonder how the jet-black color shifts to blue and purple and any number of hues when the sun hits it just so.

“Of course, dear. And where do you tell people you got it?”

Warlock scoffs. “A crow,” he says, as scathingly as a five-year-old can, as if offended that he’s been patronized with such a simple question. 

“Very good. Excellent lying, young master.”

“Not that you should lie,” Aziraphale says distantly, feeling somewhat obligated to add that. “Unless, well, unless it’s to keep someone you love safe.” He swallows, and finds himself pinned under a very surprised, very attentive yellow gaze. “Little lies,” he says, quietly, feeling like his mouth is entirely too dry to produce any kind of intelligible speech.

“Little liesss,” Nanny - Crowley, under all the nonsense it’s always Crowley - says softly, the sibilants drawing out as she trails off. Aziraphale is aware his mouth is hanging open, the damned piece of straw dangling off his lip, but he doesn’t know what to say, isn’t sure where to go next from here, and -

“ _ Achoo _ !” Warlock - bless him, bless his Satanic little heart - sneezes, having tickled the bottom of his own nose with the feather. He sneezes again, a few more times, and when he stops, he looks to his Nanny, a little grin already at the corners of his mouth.

Nanny rubs his hair and says, solemnly, “Salad.”

-


	2. +1

**+1**

The cottage is warm and welcoming, all of the windows open to let in the fresh and comfortable air of the spring day. Aziraphale is relaxing in his favorite chair in the library, legs crossed and a book on his knee, content as could be. Adam, down for the weekend while his parents have a bit of a getaway to Wales, is laying on the couch on his belly, legs kicking idly as he reads his own book. Crowley is somewhere - probably the garden, this time of year, threatening a few plants into early blooms no doubt - and the whole thing is so  _ wonderfully perfect _ that in spite of his book, Aziraphale allows his mind to drift. 

6000 years. 6000 years of worry, of deception, of hiding. It had been worth it, without a doubt. He is blessed,  _ so blessed _ , and as his mind happily takes up residence on cloud nine, his soul sings thanks to God for allowing him this moment, for leading him to this little microcosm of the universe, his own personal Heaven. He basks in it, smiling widely, head leaned back and eyes closed, and it’s all so lovely he wishes he could take a picture, bottle the moment, do  _ something _ to preserve this forever, for the cold and rainy days -

He hears a sneeze and, not thinking, with the entire force of his being behind it, every single fiber of angelic love and benevolence, he says, “ _ Bless you _ .”

Because, of course, Crowley is out in the garden. Of course he is. 

It is not until precisely two nanoseconds pass that his brain kindly informs him that he heard Adam say ‘Bless you’ in exact unison with him.

By the time he hears the strangled scream from the den, he is already bolting up. “I’ve killed him,” he says, frantically, darting out of the library. 

“What?” Adam says, before abandoning his novel and trotting after him. “Who’s dead?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale skids to a stop in the hall, pale and panicked, looking into the den with wide, beseeching eyes. “Crowley you’re alive! You’re …” he looks his demon up and down, searching for the damage. His wings are out again, no surprise, but he’s still human-shaped. Still, something’s wrong, Crowley’s looking down at himself with horror, and Aziraphale can’t put his finger on it …

“When’d you start wearing white?” Adam asks, moving to stand next to Aziraphale in the doorway, his head cocked curiously. “And what happened to your wings?”

His wings, Aziraphale realizes with a start. How had he not noticed right away? Crowley’s wings are as familiar to him as the demon’s face: they’re black, and twisted, and they don’t work properly, but it doesn’t matter, because that’s what Crowley’s wings look like, and Aziraphale wouldn’t care if they were bat wings, or missing entirely, because they would be Crowley’s, and by extension, Aziraphale’s favorites.

Except these wings are not Crowley’s wings. They are white, and full, and whole. And there are six of them. Feathers are still drifting down on either side of him, lazily falling from their apparent explosive entry into reality. Back into reality, possibly.

“What?” Aziraphale says, thickly. 

Crowley looks up, and Aziraphale realizes - slowly, and in the background, because the majority of his brain is still busy with the wings issue - that yes, he  _ is _ wearing all white: white jeans, a white Henley, a white scarf. His glasses are changed, too: the lenses are a rich amber instead of black, and the frames are gold, shining in the sunlight. No, Aziraphale thinks, no, not sunlight, the light from his … his  _ halo _ .

“What did you do to me?” Crowley whimpers, looking to the two of them desperately. “Angel, I feel … like an  _ angel _ .”

Adam is gaping. “I think you sneezed yourself out of Hell,” he says, quietly.

“Am I an  _ angel _ ?” Crowley asks, the timbre and pitch of his voice rising with each passing second. “Angel, am I an  _ angel _ ?” And then he has to stop, because he is sneezing again, puffs of feathers fluttering out of his six wings with each bout. 

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale gasps, rushing to his side, “you’re allergic to being Holy.” And then he sneezes, too.

“No, I’m - bless it, er, damn it, er, ah …  _ fuck it _ ,” Crowley says with feeling, before shaking his head violently. “There’s sneezing powder, hang on.” He snaps, but nothing happens. Awkwardly, stunned, he tries again, this time fumbling his hand downward with the gesture instead of upward. The urge to sneeze fades immediately, and Aziraphale stares at him.

“Are you an angel?” he asks, grabbing Crowley carefully by the shoulders and spinning him around, the better to study the wings. “You have six wings.”

“I would, if I’m an angel. Again,” Crowley says weakly. “Oh, God. Am I going to have to talk to God?”

Adam joins them, warily snatching a falling feather from the air. Aziraphale shrugs, spinning Crowley back to forward-facing. There are questioning thronging in his mind, log-jamming up his train of thought, and he asks the first one that materializes on his tongue: “What were you doing with sneezing powder?”

Crowley boggles for a moment. Splutters a little, inarticulate and somewhere between indignant and bewildered, and then says, “ _ I was playing a bloody prank of course, you great prat _ !” He throws up his arms, wings fluttering behind him. “I was playing a prank, and you  _ blessed me back to angel-dom _ -”

“I helped,” Adam says, not wanting to be left out.

“- And now I’m a bleeding angel again, I never asked to be an angel again, Aziraphale, you blessed me into  _ rising _ !”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak - to point out that surely a blessing from an exiled Principality wouldn’t be enough to make a demon Rise, even if it was helped along by the Antichrist, and God must surely have approved - when a knock comes at the front door. All three freeze.

“It’s God,” Crowley whimpers first. “Oh, God.”

“It probably isn’t,” Aziraphale says weakly. “Probably.”

Adam sighs. “I’ll get it.”

“No!” the two angels say in unison. All at once, they both spring into action, diving for the archway into the hall, struggling to move at something like a run as a unit to the front door. Behind them, awed and bemused, Adam follows, his hands in his pockets, determinedly not moving faster than his habitual slouch. 

Aziraphale reaches the door first, but by the time he’s swung it open, Crowley has caught up, and the two of them end up crammed into the doorway together, Aziraphale’s bowtie askew, Crowley’s glasses slipping down and only hanging on one ear by this point. Once the door opens fully Gabriel, standing on the front porch with his hands in his pockets and a resigned expression on his face, sighs.

“Yeah,” he says, casting his eyes upwards. “About what I figured. Good Lord.”

Crowley recovers first. “What do you want?”

Gabriel scowls. “What do you think,  _ Angel Crowley _ ?”

“So it really is …” Aziraphale exhales. “He’s Risen.”

“You blessed me into Rising!” Crowley snaps, glaring at Aziraphale for half a second, before turning his ire onto Gabriel. “I didn’t ask to Rise!”

“And yet here we are. Is that the Antichrist back there?” He cranes his head a little, the better to try to see around Crowley and Aziraphale, but Crowley snaps out a wing and effectively blocks his view, ignoring Adam’s offended snuffling when he gets a face-full of feathers. Gabriel shakes his head. “Whatever. I certainly wasn’t consulted on this, but I guess orders are orders. Here.” Suddenly, in his hands, there is a lap harp. He thrusts it forward toward Crowley. “Standard issue.”

Crowley stares at the harp for a moment before his mouth twists into a sneer. “I’m not taking that.”

“Yes, you are,” forcing the thing into Crowley’s arms in spite of the former demon’s resistance. “I don’t care if you never play a note on it, just take it.”

Spiteful, Crowley plucks a single note, before the shape of the harp twists and becomes a rather expensive electric guitar. It is white, of course, but Aziraphale is impressed that in spite of that Crowley managed to imagine little flame art in being on the sides. 

“Whatever,” Gabriel groans. “Fine. Whatever. Ugh, just … you have to re-contract. Sign this.”

“ _ No _ !” Crowley draws back with a hiss, guitar clutched in front of himself like a shield. “You bloody wanker, I’ve been a demon for the past 6000 years, I’m not just gonna  _ be an angel _ and  _ sign this _ !”

“6020 years,” Aziraphale murmurs quietly. “Give or take.”

“6020 years!” And, in spite of his denial, he is studying the contract in Gabriel’s hand. It is a singular page, simple enough: Heavenly contracts tend to be more straightforward than their Hellish counterparts, and are significantly abbreviated in comparison. Of course, it does make them easier to wriggle out of, but when breaking a contract comes with a smiting clause, people are unsurprisingly reluctant to do so. “What’s it for?”

“Your angelic service. Which,” he elaborates, in the same tone someone might use to describe a particularly disgusting insect, “is strictly a formality, since I haven’t found a single angel who would be willing to work with you aside from the obvious exception. Effectively, you will work in exile.”

Crowley leans in - he still has snake eyes, Aziraphale thinks, watching him read, and he wonders if that means he is a heavenly winged serpent - and frowns at the contract. “Hang on,” he says, prodding a line with one long, bony finger, “says here my boss is Raphael.”

“Yes.” Gabriel snorts derisively, and shrugs. “If you can find him, you’re more than welcome to introduce yourself.”

“Where do I sign?”

“Listen just - huh? Oh. Oh, uh. There’s fine.” Gabriel produces a pen from his jacket and hands it over, pulling his hand back quickly when Crowley takes the pen, before they can touch. “On the dotted line.”

Aziraphale watches with no small amount of surprise as Crowley tosses the guitar aside and seizes the contract - eagerly, he’s downright  _ eager _ all of a sudden - and signs a sigil with a flourish at the bottom. He is grinning, and Aziraphale is aware that that grin has absolutely nothing to do with being redeemed in the eyes of the Lord and absolutely  _ everything  _ to do with being Up To No Good. His stomach sinks a little. “What are you doing?” he hisses.

“Agreeing to Raphael being my boss,” Crowley says, handing the contract back to Gabriel and beaming at the Archangel. “There you are, all in order.”

“Yea -  _ very funny _ , Crowley.” He looks repulsed, and holds the contract out, pointing to the signature. “You think this is some kind of joke? I need  _ your _ sigil, not Raphael’s you idiot.”

“Oh, but Gabriel,” Crowley says, crossing his arms and leaning, languidly, up against the doorframe.  _ Six wings _ , Aziraphale thinks, realization slamming into him like a wave crashing onto the shore,  _ He has six wings. Seraphim have six wings _ . “Raphael’s sigil  _ is _ my sigil.”

By the look of it, Gabriel is realizing the same thing, his eyes flickering from one wing, to the second, to the third, and the fourth … “No,” he says, quietly.

“You’re Raphael? Like, an Archangel?” Adam asks, still behind them, his voice muffled by Crowley’s wings. “Hang on -”

“ _ No _ !” Gabriel, quite unconsciously, reaches up and grabs handfuls of his hair. “All this time - you’ve been a  _ demon _ all this time?” He shakes his head. “Worse, you’ve been  _ Crowley _ all this time?”

Crowley laughs, and it only sounds a little amused. “Oh, I’m still Crowley, never fear. Prefer that name, really. I’d be obliged if you changed it in the celestial phonebook or whatever.” He leans over to punch Gabriel on the shoulder in a mockery of the Archangel - the  _ other  _ Archangel - himself. “Get it sorted before the next Archangel board meeting or whatever, would you? Imagine I’ll be seeing you there.”

Gabriel stands stock-still for a long time. Then, like tendrils of frost creeping across a pond, the color drains from his face, slowly replaced with red. Red, flushing,  _ anger _ . “You -” he chokes out, barely able to speak, “You …  _ You _ -”

“ _ ACHOO _ !”

“Good God!” Aziraphale yells, jerking upright and awake, heart pounding worthlessly in his chest. He looks around, frantic - he’s in the library, in his chair, with a white-knuckled grip on the leather armrests. The windows are open and the breeze is blowing and … and there’s Adam on the couch, leaned over a little cardboard box that Crowley -  _ yes _ , he thinks desperately,  _ yes, actually Crowley, all in black and with his sunglasses and no wings visible, yes _ \- is holding. And, he realizes, as various portions of his brain continue to grumble back to alertness, they are both staring at him.

“Alright, angel?” Crowley asks, slowly, after a few uncomfortable seconds.

He raises a hand to his chest and pats himself down, just to be sure. Same waistcoat, same bowtie, same softness. He gulps in a breath, and nods. “I think so. Yes, I … I believe I had a dream.”

“Oh.” Adam looks relieved. “Oh, good.”

Crowley, on the other hand, looks intrigued. “You, dreaming? Must have been something.” He mouth twists a little. “Not a nightmare, was it?”

“I … don’t think so.” He frowns. “But it was very odd.”

“Oh yeah? What happened?”

Aziraphale frowns more deeply. He wonders if he should say. And then he shrugs. It was just a dream, after all; Crowley has them all the time, and they never mean anything. Or hopefully they don’t, anyway - the recurring one with Lord Beelzebub turning into a gigantic blueberry muffin might just prove apocalyptic after all, should it ever come true. “You Rose,” he says simply. “You sneezed, and I … said the words … and you Rose.”

Crowley winces. “So a nightmare, then.”

“And then Gabriel showed up,” Aziraphale says, trying to remember the dream, amazed at how the images are already slipping away like water from a tide pool. “He … gave you an electric guitar, I think. And … and then you were the Archangel Raphael? I think. Or, you’d been Raphael all along, you didn’t  _ become _ Raphael, but when you rose you became Raphael again.”

“Raphael was my boss,” Crowley says after a stunned moment, laughing a little. “Definitely not me. I was just another working stiff.”

“Nonsense, dear, you’re never ‘just another’ anything. But I understand.” He sighs, and leans back into his chair. “Well. I think I’ll avoid sleeping for the next few centuries. That was very odd.”

“Did I look good?”

“What?”

Crowley waves a hand, egging Aziraphale on. “As Raphael. Did I look good?”

“Oh, dear boy.” Aziraphale smiles, and then finds himself laughing softly, shaking his head. “Of course you did: you always do. But yes, you looked very stylish.”

“Can’t have been too bad of a nightmare then,” Crowley concludes with a smug little grin.

Aziraphale shakes his head, but doesn’t reply to that. “What’s in the box?” he asks instead, wagging a finger at the package. “That there.”

“This?” Crowley holds it up, the better to peer into it. He’s still grinning, but it’s a devilish expression now, the same from the dream, which preceded a stereotypically-Crowley episode of mischief. 

Adam jumps in. “Sneezing powder!” he informs the angel. “Crowley’s going to loan me some for school! It’s gonna be wicked!”

“Doubtlessly,” Aziraphale says. Adam nods with enthusiasm, and turns back to the box, cautiously prodding a finger into the depths. There is a little puff of powder that wafts up, and uncontrollably, Crowley sneezes when it drifts into his face.

“Ble -” Adam starts, but Aziraphale shouts “ _ STOP _ !” much louder and more quickly than intended, startling the boy into silence. “Um.”

Aziraphale blushes. Embarrassed, he picks at the edge of his waistcoat for a second, and then rises, weaving around the coffee table on his way to the couch. “Sorry it’s … well, Crowley being a demon, his corporation doesn’t always respond positively to blessings.”

“I don’t think I’m actually going to Rise, though,” Crowley says, obviously bemused, as Aziraphale plucks the box from his hands. “It was just a dream, angel.”

“I know,” he says primly, making sure the lid of the box is snugly in place. “But better safe and all that.”

Adam looks from one to the other, and then shrugs and sighs. “Okay, sure. So what do you say instead? I gotta say something - it’s rude not to.”

“You say ‘salad’,” Aziraphale says, business-like, before turning on his heel to leave the room. “I’ll put this with your things, Adam. I think it’s proven it’ll work just fine.”

They watch him go, Adam confused and Crowley chuckling quietly. After a long minute, Adam turns slowly to Crowley and says, carefully, “ _ Salad _ ?”

“It’s a long story.”

Adam thinks that over for another minute, staring at Crowley all the while. “You know, honestly?” he says then, his voice hushed, almost awed, “The angel and demon thing  _ almost _ isn’t the weirdest thing about you guys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Leesha and Rose - you are both at fault and the inspiration. Salud.
> 
> Also, note: The referenced design for Crowley the angel was definitely inspired by tumblr user [wikigiuli](https://wikigiuli.tumblr.com/) and their [reverse au crowley](https://wikigiuli.tumblr.com/post/186651280640/way-too-many-sketches-about-my-personal-goodomens)! I love a lot of reverse AU designs but for some reason this is where i always end up.


End file.
